Control
by ArrangedloveMatch
Summary: England was a man of control. Or so he liked to think.' England's reaction to French aid during the American Revolution. Hints of America/England and once-upon-a-time France/England


Summary: One-Shot focusing on England's reaction to French aid during the American Revolution. Hints of America/England and _once-upon-a-time _England/France

Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. Trust me.

Ooooh, be nice. I love APH to death and US/UK to even more death but it's so hard to write. Oh dear.

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_Control_

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England liked to think of himself as a man of control. He was not ruled by his emotions. He could easily make decisions in diplomacy and give orders in battle, whether in his own personal interest or not, without batting an eye, and save pleasure or pain for later. It was not that his emotions were few, because they were not, or that they were not strong, because they were, but they did not rule him or cloud his vision or in _any_ way dictate his choices. Or so he liked to think.

But in the grand scheme of things there were several instances where his control had slipped. When France, for instance, had left him the first time, he had forgone dignity and sobbed like a babe. When Henry had been so wary of Spain so had England, and he had blamed Antonio for things that were clearly not his doing, simply because he could. When Elizabeth died, he had locked himself away for ages like a recluse or a widow and ended up letting James do as he pleased, which in retrospect was a terrible idea.

In reality, though, most of the older wounds that ached in his bones had to do with France, and no matter how beneficial their relationship might become or how strong their treaties might be, England knew deep in his heart that he would never, _never_ be able to forgive him for what he had done. He sometimes wondered if Francis felt the same way—that they would always clash because they had so much between them, too many hearts broken and too many deep hurts—and decided that he probably did not. Behind his easy smile France held nothing, he was an empty shell and cared for naught but his own…his own pleasure. England would forever fight him because his heart pained him, but France would fight for amusement.

But England's newer, stronger aches, ones he felt not in his bones but in his heart, revolved around America. Young, blue eyed, independent America, his greatest success, his rebellious colony, his favorite. Not all of the aches were bad, necessarily, some of them had a lot to do with affection and pride, pride in his ability to brag to the other nations, 'l_ook at my boy, see how he has grown, isn't he impressive_.' Many aches, of course, and especially the recent ones, were very bad, brought on by betrayal and violence and animosity, things that not so long ago were the opposite of his feelings towards America, bright, boisterous, beautiful America.

France and America cracked England's veneer of control individually, so when he saw them standing together—France's hand resting on the young shoulder with such familiarity, smiling his flirtatious smile, and America alight with laughs—England felt something snap. He had not felt so angry in a very long time, not even when America had thrown all his tea in the ocean or sent him that ridiculous letter about _unalienable rights_ and _independence_ (the boy could barely lace his own breeches without England's help, and he wanted to be a nation, he was mad). But now France was with the boy, smiling at him, touching him, clearly flirting with him, and England could recognize the look in his eyes anywhere, he knew this game well, but America was young and innocent and so pure, what did he know of this? And yet England knew America just as well and could see the big blue eyes clouded with good humor and, and—dear God, with _attraction_, his cheeks were flushed with it.

It certainly did not help matters when France caught sight of him and smirked like a…a…like a thief, and draped his free arm over America's shoulders and pulled the boy closer, and America, little America, he flushed with embarrassment but he wasn't resisting, not in the slightest, wasn't trying to push away or anything and was he—_was he leaning in to France's chest?_

England's reason shattered and he began shouting.

"Get your filthy Frog hands off of my colony!"

America jumped, not having noticed England's arrival, but France, who had, only chuckled and pulled the young man closer.

"_Bonjour_, Arthur," he said smoothly, nodding his head. America made a choked sound that might have been a cry of "Arthur?!" but the Frenchman was holding him too closely for England to be sure.

He saw red. "Get your hands _OFF_ of him!"

It was more of an animalistic snarl than a yell, but France hardly blinked. Instead his smirk grew to a leering grin, and he said, no, purred, "Ah, but zeh are good 'ands, are zeh not?"

England stiffened because he knew what France referred to, knew that in that moment they shared the same memories, and they were lying by the Thames or the Seine and England was sighing, gasping, _'yes, Francis, there, again there' _and _'your hands, oh, you have devil's hands,'_ to which France would smile and his clever fingers would dance. England's favorite part of France had always been his slender, pale hands.

England knew that was what France meant and he saw those same hands curled around America's waist, and his anger was suddenly so palpable that he found himself choking on it. "I said _OFF_ you…you Godless French swine!" he managed, cursing himself for such a pathetic insult.

France could see the sincerity of England's anger, he _knew_ it, and had the audacity to laugh at him. "_Ah, bon?_ So aggressive, _monsieur_. Per'aps you are zee, 'ow you saw, jealous lover, _non_?"

The word 'lover' danced in England's head but the word 'jealous' leapt out much more. "Jealous? Why would I be—" The sudden realization that he was speaking to France, who knew nothing but the lover's chase and desire of conquests and who could not know England's secrets but could certainly guess, jolted up from his stomach to his throat. His voice, when it came, trembled with both fury and harsh panic. "_What have you done to make me jealous?!_"

France's eyes narrowed not unlike a cat's and breathed, in French, "Nothing that he did not want, I assure you."

England froze, and America, who could not speak French, was looking back and forth between the two men, bewildered and confused. "Mark me," England breathed, low and dangerous, "if you've filled my Alfred's head with nonsense or—" God forbid "—or touched him inappropriately, I will rip your bloody tossing _face _off right _here_!"

France's catlike stare vanished and he laughed again, and spoke in pleasant English. "Ah, never fear, _mon ami!_ I 'ave taught zee boy a great many things."

"WHAT THINGS?!" England roared like a lion.

America spoke this time. "Francis, stop talking," he said, low and uncomfortable, and England felt all the air go out of him because America was blushing, for Christ's sake, and America never blushed, _never_, so France, he must have…did he…to America…

But before England could get his hands on France and choke the life out of him, and he _wanted_ to, oh, so much, America turned to him, and though his cheeks still held color his eyes were hard, shards of sharp glass, holding determination and no warmth.

"England," he said coolly, and with such lack of affection England felt his heart cracking. "Unless you are here to negotiate your surrender, you are not wanted."

It was strange. Beneath his anger and anguish and utter bewilderment at why, _why, why would he do this to me_, England found himself hearing the adult, mature tone to America's voice, the utter control and authority it held for one so young, and felt a small, unexpected twinge of pride.

It vanished quickly and England schooled his features into an indignant glare. "I see," he responded just as coolly, and shot one last venomous look at France—_if you've touched him, violated him, I swear to God that I will kill you, I will kill you and piss on your body_—before turning smartly on his heal and walking briskly away.

His mind was blank in his rage. He could only see the way France leered, arms wrapped around America with no regard for propriety, blatantly flaunting his…his…_relationship_ with the boy. Christ, America was little more than a _child_, and France was insinuating that he had…had…—that French bastard would rot in hell. How _dare_ he take advantage of America like that, he barely knew the boy, not like England did; he doubted that the bastard knew a thing about America, not his favorite color (blue, like his eyes, like a clear summer sky, like freedom) or how scared he had been when he had first shot a gun (England held his hands steady and helped him aim and felt the young body tremble with anticipation and terror) or how his eyes had looked in Boston on that terrible, terrible day (all parts determination and fierceness behind his face paint but shining, shining with tears that he refused to shed). France knew nothing. America was not France's to take, he was not, he was…he was _England's_, and only England's, he was his shining boy and the favorite of all his colonies and he couldn't lose him, he just _couldn't_, oh Alfred, oh Alfred, please, please…

_No_.

_Stop that._

He was being a sentimental fool.

He was a man of control, he was an _Empire_, by God, and he had an uprising to quiet. As the British Empire he could do nothing less than squash this rebellion and put his colony in its place, and everything could go back to the way it was before, with the Empire perhaps a bit more strict and careful and the Colony far more respectful.

But as he walked away with his eyes burning, his mouth set in a thin line, England could not help but acknowledge that, as a man, he would give America anything—his representation, his rights, anything—to keep him by this side.

'Oh, bloody sodding hell,' he thought, rubbing a hand roughly over his eyes. 'You're an Empire before you are a man.'


End file.
